Suicides Have A Special Language. Like Carpenters

I Must Always Forget How One Word Is Able To Pick Out Another, To Manner Another, Until I Have Got Something I Might Have Said... But Did Not.

There Is No Word For Time. Today We Will Not Think To Number Another Summer Or Watch Its White Bird Into The Ground.

All In All, I'd Say, The World Is Strangling.

The Fish Are Naked. The Fish Are Always Awake. They Are The Color Of Old Spoons And Caramels.

Now, In My Middle Age, About Nineteen In The Head I'd Say, I Am Rowing, I Am Rowing.